Dead Daze – Pitch-Black Second Chance – Story Fodder Read Online J.A. Huss

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Insta-Love Tags Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement

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It's always appropriate. Always explainable. Always just on the edge of professional distance without ever quite stepping over.

But god, do I wish he'd step over that line.

I'm dying—actively, desperately dying—for this man to touch me inappropriately. To let one of those lingering hand placements drift lower. To let his fingers tighten on my hip instead of my shoulder. To look at me like he wants to do something other than correct my deadlift form.

Almost seven months now.

Seven months with no sex.

I've started masturbating again, so that's progress, I guess. That's something. That's movement in a forward direction.

But it's not the same.

Not the same, Scarletta?

Before Caleb, you went years without sex and barely noticed. You were fine with self-touch. You functioned. What's different now?

Right. Yeah. I get that. I understand the logical inconsistency here.

But you can't just go from zero to eleven and then back to zero again, can you?

You can't experience something that intense, that all-consuming, that physically and psychologically transformative, and then just... pretend it never happened.

Pretend your body doesn't remember.

Pretend you don't have a new reference point for what touch can feel like, what desire can do to you.

It's set a whole new baseline. A whole new standard. A whole new bar that regular human interaction can't seem to clear.

And that's the problem, isn't it?

I like… weird sex. And Ryan might be the first man I've encountered since… the maze, that could give me more of what I'm after.

He's built like someone who could pin me down. Who could hold me in place if I tried to squirm away. Who knows what his body can do and isn't afraid to use it.

And he's giving me signals that he's interested. That he's noticed me. That those lingering touches and the deliberate eye contact aren't accidental.

So maybe I should do something about it.

Maybe I should approach him. Stop waiting. Stop hoping he'll escalate. Take some kind of action instead of just… showing up and hoping proximity does the work.

But what the hell would I even say?

How do you signal to someone that you're into the kind of sex that requires negotiation? That you don't just want missionary with the lights off? That you need something darker, something harder, something that involves words like consensual and safeword in the same conversation?

Do I just walk up to him after my next session and say, "Hey, Ryan, you got any workouts that might help with, say, lowering my gag reflex? Asking for a friend. The friend is me."

Or maybe, "Is there some special routine I could do that might prepare my ass for penetration? Like flexibility training? Core strength? I feel like there's got to be a muscle group involved here that I'm neglecting."

Yeah. Great plan. Really subtle.

And it doesn't help that he looks like he's got a perpetual chub going on beneath those joggers he wears.

Like, it's always there. Every single time I see him. Morning, afternoon, doesn't matter—there's a visible outline pressing against the fabric, a ridge that catches the light sometimes when he shifts his weight or leans back against the counter.

I mean, maybe it's not a chub. Maybe it's just—maybe his cock is genuinely that size when it's soft. Maybe that's just what he's working with baseline. Which would mean when he's actually hard, when he's actually aroused, it's probably⁠—

Massive.

Like, genuinely intimidating. Like, I-don't-know-if-that-would-even-fit massive. Like, that-could-be-a-problem-and-I-don't-know-if-I'd-care massive.

And now that I've noticed it, I can't stop noticing it.

Every time I walk past the front desk, every time he comes over to adjust a machine setting or ask if I need help with my form, my eyes flick down for half a second before I can stop myself. I don't mean to. It's compulsive at this point. Intrusive thought made visual.

And the worst part is… I think he knows I've noticed.

Because sometimes when I glance up after one of those half-second slips, he's watching me. Not smiling, not smirking—just watching. Waiting to see if I'll look again.

It's hard to tune out.

Impossible, actually.

"Hey, Scarletta?"

I turn, blushing. Because it's Ryan. He's striding towards me with purpose. His cock bouncing beneath his gray sweats.

Do not look. Do not look.

It takes every ounce of restraint I have to focus on his face. "Hey, hi. What's up?" Look at his eyes, Scarletta. His eyes.

"I've got a question for you."

"Oh," I say. Please, let this question be, Would you like me to clamp your nipples for today's workout?

"How would you like to train with me for a special project?" Ryan says. "It's something I'm developing. New program. Still in the testing phase."

I blink at him. My brain's trying to process words but it's stuck somewhere around train with me and special and honestly, I'm still thinking about his dick.

He mistakes my silence for hesitation. "I need someone who can handle intensity. Someone who won't quit halfway through." His eyes hold mine. "I think that's you."


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